My So Called Life
by CigarsAllAround
Summary: Step inside and find a grouped up bunch of short punishment essays written by Rogue about her life, family and thoughts. Be warned: Fluffy and heart warming. AU. Logan is the daddy and Rogue is the daughter.
1. The First Greatest Short Essay

**This short, little essay is fluffy and a little humorous. But I had better explain a little of the back story behind it first. In my bouncing X-Men universe, Logan adopted Rogue after she came to the mansion.**

**She now see's him as her Daddy and in Wolverine's eyes, she's his little girl and always will be. **

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**My So Called Life:**

The Greatest Short Essay in the History of Short Essays: By Anna-Marie Logan

My life didn't start until I was fifteen. So whatever happened before that won't not be brushed upon because I'm such a great essay writer. The truth is, I didn't like life until I moved to the mansion.

I had no family, no possessions. Nothing. Only the clothes on my back and a giant chip on my shoulder. But I hope I've grown and changed for the better since then.

Sometimes I have great difficulty putting into words how appreciative I am or how much I owe James Logan. He's my best friend, my teacher, my protector: He's my father. My Daddy. And I wouldn't swap him for all the cigarettes in the world.

Mostly because if I did swap him for cigarettes he would kill me. But I also wouldn't want to be without him. No matter how much the man annoys me, how strict he is, or how much his lectures drive me to the brink of insanity, I would miss him if he went away.

He's my family. So that's why I'm sitting in the kitchen, writing this essay about my life and defending his honour from some jumped up little shit. Because James Logan is family and would do the same for me.

Sometimes being part of a family is hard, but it's worth all the bad times, the effort and the strife when I see the proud look on my Daddy's face when I achieve something or I beat the high score in the Danger Room. I never thought anybody would be proud of me, but I know he is.

To me adoption means I'm finally with the right parent(s). I was born, abandoned, then fostered. But I never felt like I truly belonged until I was fifteen and met my Daddy. It makes no difference that we aren't related by blood, there's still a strong bond there that will never be broken no matter what life throws our way.

Happiness was a feeling I had forgotten over the years. I only felt rage, bitter disappointment and complete hatred at everybody and everything. But enough with the past, I only want to look to the future. My future is now bright, painted with happiness, shades of green and a sprinkle of something categorically Canadian. I have my Daddy to thank for that.

Having a father like mine is pretty fucking amazing. (Can I swear in an essay, Daddy? You had better not dock any points if I can't or I'll make your life a misery!) He's the toughest man I've ever met but he's also a teddy bear. There's nobody else I'd rather spend time with. Well, except Johnny Cash. But he's on the great stage in the sky.

Johnny Cash had a love for black, guitars, country music and June Carter Cash. My Daddy has simple pleasures too. They range from flannel shirts, beer, cigars and cage fighting. To facial hair, The Rolling Stones, Canada, lecturing me and kicking ass. Yes, his life really is**_ tha_****_t_** boring. Then again, he is an old man now (One hundred and fifty! That's damn old. And all those candles we would need for his birthday cake would burn the mansion down to the ground!) and old men are pretty set in their ways.

My Daddy is old fashioned and punishes me when I misbehave. It took me a long time to fully understand why he does this. Even when he explained his reasons for his decisions I still refused to listen and would shout, scream, yell, curse, fight and then mope and sulk with a sore behind.

Things are different now though, because I do finally understand. He punishes me as my parent because he wants me to grow up to be happy and well adjusted. He doesn't wish a life of crime, drug addiction or just plain arrogance, stupidity and ignorance for me: He wants me to be educated, strong, independent, sensible, caring, loving and well liked. And thanks to him, I will be that and more. I will make him proud.

I may not say this enough to his face or even tell him when we're alone, but I love him with all my heart. James Logan is my Daddy and always will be no matter what happens. He took me under his wing when he could see that I was struggling with my life and made sure I was loved, cared for and felt safe.

I always have somebody to talk to when I'm feeling down, lonely, upset or angry at the world. And I go to bed at night knowing nothing or nobody can hurt me because I'm the Wolverine's little girl, and my Daddy would kill anybody who tried to harm me.

This essay started out as a difficult and infuriating assignment from an angry Daddy, but it turned out do be a blessing in disguise. I was able to sit down and think seriously about my life and what's important to me.

I just hope then when this is handed in to the asshole who made me do it, he'll be as pleased with the outcome as I am. It might not be the longest essay in history (Hence the title) or the most educational, funniest or most thought provoking, but it came from the heart, my heart and I mean every single word.

There's only one more thing left to say and that's I love you Daddy, and this essay is for you and your eyes only. If it ever falls into the wrong hands I will hurt you. Oh, and I charged a two hundred dollar pair of leather pants to your bank card. Sorry about that. But please remember that I love you a lot and they were the most beautiful pair of pants I had ever seen. So please don't shred them!


	2. The Second Greatest Short Essay

**The Second Greatest Short Essay in the History of Short Essays  
By Anna Marie Logan**

I'm still far from the most spectacular essay writer. In fact, I would go as far as saying - or writing with a scowl on my face in this instance - I suck monkey balls. That's not to say I have any interest in sucking anything but beer bottles and cigarettes, but here I am, writing an essay that sucks monkey balls.

My daddy growled at me earlier and demanded I plant my ass in my room and not move until I've written said shitty essay. And do you know what my chosen topic is? It's on the art form of writing essays for pissed as hell daddies. I think there's supposed to be a beginning, a middle and end, just like a story. If I were you, and I'm damn glad I'm not… I mean, look at you. What have you done to your hair? Did you even brush it today or do you sleep tied to the top of a flagpole on Mount Kilimanjaro?

This is already turning into the world's most pointless essay that isn't really an essay. I need to claw my thoughts back. (Claws, daddy? Did you like that? Come on! I thought it was real damn good fun) Anyway, back to the pointless essay and my pointless punishment.

Writing essays for pissed as hell daddies is a very important job. It takes skills of a superhero with two-toned hair and the thinking process of one, too. I have a mouth that could disrobe a nun, but you haven't seen anything until you take a peek into my mind. On second thoughts, I really don't want to see what a nun is hiding under her clothes. I bet it's something like a fucking AK-47 or a rocket launcher. I wonder what God would do to the cop when he arrived at the pearly gates, if he took down a Jesus loving nun running riot with more ammo than the middle east?

It's a very important job because daddies can get mighty angry if you disobey them. Say for instance I dumped this crappy essay in the trash and fucked off to the movie theatre… (They're showing a silent horror movie marathon tonight until 2AM. I'm going by the way, Wolverine) If I did that, the flat of my daddy's hand would make quick work of my southern ass. Scarlet red really isn't a colour that suits me, so here I am writing my punishment essay.

Writing essays for pissed as hell daddies can be seen as an art form. My pen is my paintbrush, the paper is my canvas, the words are my paint and I'm the frustrated artist whose going to cut off her ear if she doesn't get some recognition and a cheque for half a million bucks. That's all I'm going to say for this paragraph because I really have no idea where I'm running with it and that reminds me of a funny story.

Last week I ran like a bat out of hell from the dining room. It was family dinner night and I threw Storm's pride and joy at Scott. Before you form a freaky assed picture of me chucking Evan across the table at Summers, I'm talking about some stupid cream cake. It was huge, really massive and looked better sliding down Scott's face.

Come to think of it, this isn't much of a story and not remotely funny in the end. My daddy can really run for an old as fuck guy weighed down by heavy adamantium. I thought the vein on his forehead was going to burst. It kept dancing around and so was I when the hairbrush was through with my backside. See? Not funny at all and what in hell has happened to my essay?

My paintbrush is almost out of ink and I'm not entirely sure if I've gotten my point across or not. The fact I actually need a point to make is suddenly hitting me like a ton of Johnny Cash records. What was this Goddamn essay about anyway? Shit I really can't be bothered to read back, I'd rather sleep until dinner.

Wait, I think I remember. Yeah, it's all coming back to little old me. In conclusion I, Anna-Marie Logan, truly believe God would kick the cop in the balls. Nobody messes with his possy of nuns. Those nuns are God's homies. You get me?

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**Thanks to the following lovely people who reviewed '****The Greatest Short Essay in the History of Short Essays' - tenchi13, Rogueslove22, Z, anniepresley, Raven34link, anon, lajoci. **

**There is no reason for this, other then a thought hitting me right between the eyes: Rogue with a short attention span. **


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